Forgiven
by lulu0814
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. In desperation, the remnants of Moriarty's organization resort to kidnapping Sherlock's friends. Mycroft and Sherlock try to recover the hostages, and Sherlock must seek forgiveness for the destruction he left behind when he faked his own death.
1. Chapter 1

_AN: Fuck it. Fuck it all._

_I've desperately been trying to finish my GWTW fic, but this thing wouldn't stop bouncing along in my head. I figure if I write it down, it'll go away. Besides, being interested enough to write anything at all is probably good, right? Now stop bothering me, you useless plot bunny. _

___Please, if you spot any Americanisms (Canadianisms?) tell me about it. Or anything that sounds weird and un-BBC._

* * *

FORGIVEN

The darkness silently slid off his face. The harsh flood of fluorescent lights momentarily made him dizzy. He blinked away the dancing spots in his eyes.

His wrists, still covered in dried blood, were expertly tied. There would be no chance of twisting out of the bonds. He was inside a sparse nondescript room, with no furniture other than a table and a handful of wooden chairs, one of which he was tied to. He was briefly reminded of his first meeting with Mycroft, although in this present instance there were at least five men pointing guns at his head, which made the situation rather different. Even if he were to miraculously untie himself from the seat, he would easily be riddled in bullet holes within seconds. A few feet away, there was a similarly bound woman wearing a stained flowery blouse. She was quietly sobbing under her black hood. He was then reminded of Sarah's unfortunate kidnapping at the hands of the Chinese smugglers. But this woman couldn't be Sarah, could she?

"So. The famous Dr. Watson," said the man in front of him, twisting the hood in his fingers. Though there was nothing exceptional about his appearance, he seemed to exude some authority over the other armed goons. "I don't believe we've been formally introduced."

"Who are you?" said John Watson.

"I'll admit, I underestimated you," the man continued, mindless of the interruption. "We weren't expecting an ordinary veteran to carry firearms on grocery trips. You downed three of my men, do you know that?"

The man unhurriedly paced around his hostages. His slow, casual movements seemed to conceal an underlying strain. Every word was carefully weighted, and his drawling tone seemed artificially nonchalant. He threw the balled up hood on the ground. He lit a cigarette. Nothing broke his ominous silence aside from the woman's muffled crying.

"Now you probably wonder why you're here," he finally went on. "We were hoping you'd help our cause. You see, some of your... friends have been a big nuisance to us. Believe me, I would rather tie them up in your place, but I'm sure you've realized by now that you'll always be easier to capture, no matter how many firearms you carry. So, since we're conveniently gathered here, how about we strike a bargain?" He blew smoke in John's face. "You give me intelligence on Mr. Holmes. Intel we can use. And I just might let you live for a little while longer. How does that sound?"

The woman went silent and perked up her head.

"I don't know what you're on about," John muttered, fighting the impulse to cough from the smoke, "Sherlock Holmes is dead. Long dead. I saw him fall with my own eyes."

"Oh, not that one." The man waved his hand almost disdainfully. "We'll get to him in time, I'm sure. No, I was speaking of Mycroft Holmes, the older brother. You're an acquaintance of his, isn't that right?"

"Mycroft?" John asked, a bit thrown off. "I don't know him very well, and I don't care about him much. In fact, I haven't seen the bastard in ages. Sorry for wasting your time, and may I go home now?" John was surprised by his own calm. Maybe he was growing too accustomed to kidnappings.

The man chuckled slightly. It was an unpleasant sound. "Careful with your attitude, doctor. Really, I'm doing you a favour. Instead of killing you on the spot, which is what you deserve for dispatching my employees, I'm giving you a way out."

"Well that's awfully kind of you," said John a bit too flippantly, "but unfortunately I was never very close to Mycroft. He's a sneaky, secretive chap. You've kidnapped the wrong person."

It was far too dangerous to talk to his own kidnapper like this. He was toying with fire. He was going to die. Though on the bright side, he genuinely knew very little about Mycroft. If he was to die either way, he would rather do it with his head held high instead of begging for mercy.

The man rested his hand on the woman's covered head. She let out a little yelp. "Perhaps this girl will change your mind." He ripped off the woman's hood.

"John?" she said. It sounded like a question. Her hair was awfully tousled and bruises were blossoming on her face, but John recognized her.

"Oh no." John shook his head. "Oh Molly, no, no. She's got nothing to do with this! Why would she know anything about Mycroft, you bunch of stupid tits? She's barely even met him."

The man carelessly pressed a pistol against Molly's temple. He held her head in place as she struggled. "Is that so? Well, since she is useless to us, I'm rather hoping she can jog your memory. Now that I finally have your attention, tell me what you know about Mycroft Holmes." Molly closed her eyes. Tears ran down her swollen cheeks.

"I... He... works for the government. He frequents the Diogenes club. He... he knows the queen," John blurted out. His panic made it very hard to think. Maybe if he somehow stood up and hurled himself at Molly, perhaps using the chair as cover...

The man's face darkened. "D'you think that we're chummy abductors with a sense of humour? I don't _care_ about the queen. I want Holmes' location. I want to know what he's planning. I want to know what he has on us. You will find me a way to beat him into the ground until he's a pile ashes, and only then will I try to be merciful."

"But I don't know anything!"

"I'm losing my patience, doctor. Do you want this poor girl here to die?"

Without warning, he brutally bludgeoned Molly's head with the butt of his gun. She let out a blood-curdling scream.

"_No_! Please, leave her alone," John begged.

"It's your choice, doctor," the man concluded. Smiling, he stubbed out his cigarette on Molly's knee.

* * *

"I demand to know what on earth is going on!" someone yelled inside the perfectly normal-looking Italian restaurant.

Mycroft Holmes gave Detective Inspector Lestrade a pinched smile over his cup of tea. "I believe Mrs. Hudson has joined us."

Sure enough, Mrs. Hudson was half-dragged into the kitchen by a suited man. "Let go of me you big clot! I can walk by myself."

Lestrade waved at her, but she chose to ignore him in order to pounce on Mycroft.

"Mycroft Holmes, what is the meaning of this! Dragging me out to God knows where in my nightie, and at my age! How incredibly rude of you," she chided. Lestrade had never seen her so angry.

"Mrs. Hudson, I apologize for the brusque treatment, but I assure you that this is for your own safety. Let's talk somewhere a bit more private, shall we?" Mycroft put his teacup on the counter and beckoned at two perfectly normal-looking cooks, who discretely abandoned their vegetables and followed them into what appeared to be a locked cupboard. The cupboard was a staircase that led to a spacious basement.

"What is this, some kind of secret underground bunker?" asked Lestrade, as Mycroft led them through password protected doors and severe cement hallways that would have been at home in a James Bond movie.

Mycroft sighed. "I'm afraid these are our temporary headquarters. I decided to go off the grid, so to speak. And I'm afraid you two will have to do the same for a few days."

He finally led them to an unlocked room that was furnished like a comfortable lounge. The two cooks stood guard in front of the door. "Please, have a seat." Mrs. Hudson gingerly sat next to Lestrade on a plush couch, hugging her nightgown closer around her body.

Mycroft did not sit. He had the look of someone who had urgent business to attend to elsewhere. "I had to suffer through a rather unpleasant assassination attempt a few days prior" he began, "and I've since gone into hiding as a precaution. You cannot receive the clearance to know most of the details. Suffice to say that you are both in danger. It was ultimately decided that it would draw too much attention from the wrong people if we simply upped your security detail, so you two will have to stay out of the public eye altogether. This facility is perfectly safe, rest assured. You'll be perfectly comfortable. We've prepared some rooms for you, brought in your wardrobes and toiletries, and you'll be provided with as much Italian food as you desire."

"Why, do you think someone would try to murder _me_?" asked Mrs. Hudson, aghast.

Mycroft grimly thumbed the handle of his umbrella. "John Watson and Molly Hooper have been kidnapped."

"_What_?"

"From now on I'd rather play it as safe as possible. I'm sure you understand."

"But are they alive, are they all right?" Lestrade cried.

"We... are working on that."

"They are going to be all right, aren't they?" lamented Mrs. Hudson. "I thought John would finally keep out of trouble, now that he's on his own. And Molly is such a nice girl, what would anyone want with her?" She seemed about ready to faint.

Before Mycroft could reply, a woman abruptly walked into the room and whispered something in his ear. Mycroft closed his eyes and let out a sigh. He suddenly seemed aged and tired infinitely sad.

"I'm very sorry," he said, "but there is a... a security breach I must attend to. Anthea will show you to your rooms."

* * *

Sherlock Holmes stared through the glass. He stared at a heavily tattooed man who met his interrogator's questions with a stony silence.

He stood perfectly still, mindless of the security guard sprawled unconscious at his feet. His short hair had been dyed a light chestnut colour, and his slim frame appeared famished and strained. He wore a thin grey jumper and a worn leather jacket, both of which Mycroft had never seen on him before. He looked painfully, heart-breakingly young.

"For Christ's sake, is it really necessary to knock out my security personnel?" complained Mycroft.

"He tried to keep me out," said Sherlock tonelessly.

"You don't have the authorization to be in this room. As a matter of fact, most of my associates consider your knowledge of this facility to be a dangerous liability."

"Sebastian Moran has captured John," replied Sherlock evenly.

Mycroft's outrage turned into something akin to embarrassment. "Yes, I fear he has."

"Your agents let Moran kidnap John, and you have no idea where he is now."

Mycroft looked markedly uncomfortable. "That is also correct. The two agents who were tasked with John's protection have been killed. The same can be said for Molly's detail. John himself is presumably alive, though we are still waiting for Moran to contact us with a ransom demand of some kind. Either he's identified you as a weakness of mine and is trying to manipulate you to inconvenience me, or he is finally panicking. This could be his last ditch attempt to follow Moriarty 's old orders. Moran was never the brain of the operation, he is utterly out of sensible options, and threatening John's life has always been one of Moriarty's go-to strategies in the past. We may be witnessing nothing more than the organization's desperate dying gasps."

On the other side of the glass, the interrogator gesticulated at a map on the table. The tattooed man made no sign of understanding.

"And this is what you have. A silent goon questioned by an idiot." The disdain dripped from Sherlock's voice.

Mycroft gave a small smile. "Our captive was shot in the lower thigh by that diminutive army doctor of yours. There were two more, but I'm afraid they didn't survive. One thing I'll say for John, he may not be the brightest of men, but he's a dangerous fellow to underestimate."

An expression that could have been a pride fleetingly flashed on Sherlock's face.

"I wouldn't put too much hope in our prisoner of war," Mycroft continued. "It seems unlikely that he'll budge. So if you feel the need to share any of those brilliant observations that John so loved to gush about, I'm all ears."

"Are they safe?" Sherlock asked. His eyes were fixed on the prisoner behind the glass.

Mycroft did not need to ask who 'they' were. "I had them brought in. As long as I'm here, this is the safest place in London."

Sherlock nodded. Then he turned around, and something in the glacial way he appraised Mycroft seemed more alien than human. "From here on out, I advise you to stay out of my way, brother," he said soberly, as if he had resigned himself to a desperate course of action.

"E - Excuse me?"

But Sherlock had already barged inside the interrogation room. He pointed at the startled interrogator. "You. Get out. _N__ow._"

The suited agent snorted derisively. "I'm sorry Sherlock, but what makes you think you can give me orders?" Sherlock replied by dragging him out of his seat and throwing him against an incoming Mycroft.

"You too," he commanded to the frozen guards.

"What the hell are you doing, Sherlock?" snapped Mycroft.

"I am going to _SAVE JOHN_!" Sherlock roared. He suddenly seemed very close to bursting into tears. Mycroft looked away, embarrassed by the outburst of emotion. He passed a weary hand over his face. He could not imagine an outcome that he wouldn't immediately regret. Then he nodded reluctantly.

"Five minutes. No more."

The interrogator shuffled off, adjusting his suit and muttering angrily to himself.

The injured kidnapper found himself alone with a deceptively composed Sherlock Holmes. It was not a good situation to be in. They both seized each other up for a few silent seconds.

"Are you afraid of hell, sir?" Sherlock asked dangerously softly. He leaned down until his face was no more than a few inches away from the other man's. The thug looked a bit perplexed but said nothing. "Usually," Sherlock continued, "I would do this in a more methodical fashion. Study the soles of your shoes, perhaps. Check your fingernails. Or look at the residue on your clothing. But I'd like to recover what I need in a timely fashion, and the optimal way to do that is for you to tell me where John Watson is being held. I have already gathered a certain amount of information, so I will know if you lie. You have three seconds. Three... Two. One."

Sherlock swiftly pummeled the silent man in the thigh. Over the howls of agony, he bellowed "Where is John? Tell me!"

"You can't do that," an annoyed Mycroft started to pipe in. He was abruptly interrupted by the sound of his brother shooting their prisoner in the hand.

"My God, _Sherlock_! Have you gone insane?"

The tattooed man's screams turned into sobs, as he stumbled off the chair and tried to hide into a corner while clutching his bleeding arm. "Stop, stop, please, sir, please. I can't tell you anything, they would kill me, please don't kill me, please..." Sherlock expressionlessly shot him in the knee. He sprawled to the floor, crying incoherently for mercy.

Sherlock shoved the map into the crying criminal's face. "_Where is John Watson_?"

"Oh God, I don't know, I don't know. Don't kill me, sweet Jesus..."

"You are Irish Catholic," Sherlock said flatly. "According to your religion, individuals in your particular line of work do not enjoy the benefits of Christ's deliverance." He gently, deliberately pressed his gun against the injured man's forehead. "You can tell me the location of John Watson and help me save him, or you can burn in the deepest pit of hell for eternity. I don't suppose that an individual of your intellect can grasp the concept of eternity, but I'm sure you know what incredible pain feels like. Now imagine the pain of your wounds covering every single inch of your body. Imagine that you can never have a reprieve from this all-consuming pain. That is what burning in hell will feel like for you, and it would give me infinite pleasure to send you into infernal oblivion with John Watson's _very own gun_. If you want to strive for absolution instead, I suggest you tell me where he is. Now. And know that if you lie to me, my retribution will be more terrible than anything Sebastian Moran, or Moriarty, or Lucifer could ever dream of."

One of the guards finally gathered the courage to tap Mycroft on the shoulder. "Mr. Holmes, should we stop him, sir?"

Mycroft said nothing.

"You soulless demon," the thug whispered. He gazed at Sherlock as if he were truly a creature who had crawled out from the bowels of the inferno.

"It's your choice," Sherlock whispered back, his face as cold and hard as steel.

"Don't... don't shoot me. You win. I'll do anything you want, I swear. He's... he's here," the tattooed man whimpered with tears in his eyes. He pointed a shaky finger at the map.

* * *

_AN: Jesus, did I just start ANOTHER story that I can't finish? I don't need that right now. Why do my fics get so loooong. All right, don't worry, I've already got the next chapter almost done. And this thing should be... Three chapters long hopefully? Man, I haven't uploaded anything in a very long time, it feels unfamiliar. Also, I really don't know this fandom very well, what if people hate this? How did I ever publish stuff before? This is positively nerve-wracking. And apparently there's cover pictures now? Since when is that a thing? I'm like an old rusty codger being all "back in my day, our fanfics didn't have no pictures. We just wrote a summary. Now get off my lawn, you lil' hooligan"._

_Well. Whoever reads this, I hope you like it._


	2. Chapter 2

"It's all going to be fine, Molly, I've been kidnapped loads of times. And look at me, I'm still here with all my limbs. Look at me, hey look at me, Molly..."

The talkative leader of the armed men had been dragged out of the room for other urgent matters. Despite his ominous threats to Molly's person, he remained gone. The leftover forces had relaxed their attention enough to let John whisper comforting nothings to the poor frightened girl.

"John, I... I know things," Molly whispered so softly that John could barely see the movement of her lips.

"Know what?" asked John gently.

"Secrets. Things... Dangerous things. They questioned me in my flat, before bringing me here. And I didn't say anything, but... Maybe if I tell them, they'll let us go."

"Oh. Wow. How, how did you learn..." he shook his head slightly. "No, look, don't tell me anything. And don't tell them anything either."

"Are you sure?"

If they were no longer useful, chances were that they would be killed sooner rather than later. John forced a smile. "Hey, if I'm in the dark, then at least I don't have to lie, right? Look, Mycroft is going to send help very soon. He's not going to abandon us, even if he's a twat sometimes. So we can't abandon him either, all right?"

"Yes, yes, of course. Help is coming," Molly whispered with more conviction than John truly felt. "He's going to save you, John. He would never let anything happen to you..."

Molly hesitated as if she had more to say, but decided against it. John hoped Mycroft wasn't holding a grudge about their last meeting. Perhaps the elder Holmes had more pressing things to worry about than two civilian deaths.

* * *

"Can't we go any faster?" Sherlock asked for the fourteenth time. His remark was greeted with eye rolls and exasperated sighs.

"Look, sir," the driver of the van bellowed, "I assume you were allowed to tag along on our rescue mission for a reason, but if you don't stay quiet, my team is going to throttle you. You can bugger off and take a cab if you don't like it. Is that clear?"

"Yeah mate, we're not even sure if the hostages are really there yet, just chill out" added another. He patted Sherlock's shoulder in a helpful manner.

"_Sir_," snapped Sherlock as he swatted the hand away from his person, "if we fail to rescue John Watson in time because of your piss-poor driving, I will destroy everything you hold dear, starting with your marriage. But that won't be hard, will it? You've done most of the work already, what with the irregular hours, the riskiness of your job, and your recent erectile dysfunction. You are in fact a complete stranger to your child, and will likely be an inadequate father. Besides, the reason why I did not take a cab is because I was told I would arrive earlier with you, so I suggest you _drive faster._"

The van was deadly quiet. The driver accelerated.

* * *

The smell of burning tobacco preceded the return of the man into John and Molly's room. He looked defeated. His subordinates, who had been engaged in hushed arguments, immediately snapped to attention.

"Well, I suppose this is it, boys," he sighed. He flicked his cigarette butt at John. It bounced off on John's shoe. "Someone gave up our location."

"So what do we do now, chief?"

"I guess you can always try to run, though I wouldn't recommend it." One thug immediately fled. "Ahem. But as I was saying, we're in the process of being surrounded. Holmes is pulling all the stops. We've spotted at least seventy fully equipped men, and more are coming. Our numbers can't withstand such firepower anymore, and our remaining contacts have decided to jump ship. I suppose your choice is between death and surrender."

Molly looked at John, eyes blazing. "We're saved. It's finally over," she whispered feverishly.

One of the armed men stepped up. "I think we all agree that surrendering sounds like the more sensible option, sir."

"Hmm. I never pegged you for a coward, Forester. Would you dare say that out loud if Jim Moriarty was still in charge?" The man said absently. His gaze moved back to John.

"We didn't stand a chance after Moriarty left us anyway," said Forester nervously. He seemed to expect his leader to dole out retribution for his backtalk.

The man angrily stared at his men, with an expression that bordered on disgust. "You're all useless, the lot of you. I hope you all die and go to hell."

He pointed at John. "Untie him. Stand up like a proper soldier, Dr. Watson."

John stood, rubbing his wrists. The ropes had chaffed his skin, and some flakes of old blood from one of his would-be kidnappers remained on his fingers.

"Well, John. Did you think you'd win so easily? Were you ready to gloat about it?" asked the man. He rammed his pistol against John's chest. Molly gasped. "Surely you don't expect me to let you go now. No, you mistake me for a much more charitable person. I remember you, and I should've killed you right then and there in that swimming pool. But Jim had to play his little games, didn't he? I never approved of his stupid infatuation with Sherlock Holmes, but he made your little boyfriend a promise and I must help fulfill it, even if it's the last thing I do. Though if I were to be honest, I mostly want revenge."

John heard Molly begging for mercy. He heard his own ragged breathing. He heard his heart pounding madly. He was going to die. Truly, this time. He felt something akin to relief.

It was finally over. One way or another, he was glad.

"So you see, you couldn't win," said the man. His voice shook but his hand did not. "You know why? Because Sherlock Holmes has a heart, and Moriarty doesn't. This is for him. This is for James Moriarty. Goodbye, John."

* * *

Sherlock tumbled out of the van, a mess of panicked long limbs.

"... two more have surrendered, also confirming the presence of the hostages. Mr. Holmes, please stay back. You might get hit by a sniper. Um... What was I saying? Ah yes, so back-up will be here in ten to fifteen minutes, it'll include two choppers and five..."

A single gunshot sound was heard.

"Huh. You hear that?"

"It sounded like it came from inside."

"Hmm, but none of our units have gone in yet..."

In a flash, Sherlock started sprinting towards the building. Bullets ricocheted behind him.

"Holmes, come back! You can't go in there! _Come back_! Oh, for Christ's sake... All right, gents, I suppose we're following the crazy guy. Boss said he'd have our heads if anything happened to him."

* * *

The gunshot might have been nothing, a few idiots starting a mutiny perhaps, but nevertheless Sherlock could not quell the unspeakable terror that had gripped every fibre of his being. With his shoulder, Sherlock slammed into the locked door with all his strength. It gave in with a resounding crack. This had to be it. The two morons he had talked into surrendering were guarding this opening for a reason, surely? If taking into account the volume of the sound, the configurations of the building, the dimensions of this room -

John was bleeding on the floor.

"John? John?"

He was too late.

Even Molly, who was screaming in horror, was momentarily struck dumb by Sherlock's surprise appearance. She was struggling in the grasp of a burly captor, and Moran had apparently decided that he should kill her as well. Without sparing a single glance at his slack-jawed onlookers, Sherlock stumbled next to John's limp body.

"No... John, you can't die. Not now," he whispered falteringly as he checked for a pulse. The wound had perforated the left lung, possibly high enough to hit the heart. He ripped off the thin layer of soaked dress shirt that covered John's chest. So much blood, John's blood was everywhere...

"Sherlock Holmes?" asked Moran incredulously, all thoughts of murdering Molly forgotten for now. Sherlock ignored him completely. "My God. I can't believe it. What are you doing..."

Sherlock's heavily armed reinforcements thankfully chose that moment to burst into the room. Screams of "put your hands in the air! Hands in the air!" followed. Some of the thugs obeyed. Others opened fire. In the chaos that ensued, John and 'the crazy guy' were momentarily forgotten.

Sherlock tore off his jumper and used it to stench the blood. "I'm so sorry, it's all my fault, please, just for me John, please don't die. It can't end like this. We're finally together again, after all this time, and you're just going to die?" Sherlock was trembling. His brain was frozen. He needed to think, why couldn't he think? But all he could manage to do was press the reddening cotton into John's wound and listen to the pounding in his head. John was dying. John was dying. John was dying...

Molly, who was curled in a ball on the floor, eventually realized she couldn't hear the bullets anymore. She looked up to see one of her rescuers kneeling next to her. His face was kind. "Are you all right, miss?"

"John is going to die," she blurted out. "That monster shot him in the chest."

"Right. Don't worry miss, you'll be safe. We'll get him help right away. Alpha, this is Romeo Echo Three. Jericho is down, request immediate assistance..."

* * *

Sherlock frantically paced in circles in the cramped waiting room of the hospital. He had spent the last ten minutes trying to calculate the exact volume of blood John had lost, and had found himself utterly unable to do so. He couldn't focus at all. He needed to move, he needed distraction, he needed to quiet the roaring horrors in his mind. He didn't want to think anymore, never wanted to be able to think again. If he started thinking, he would feel John's pounding blood seeping between his fingers. _No_, don't think about that, never think about that again.

His flimsy white undershirt was soaked in blood. Tiny drips of blood followed his every step, landing on the sterile beige tiles, smearing under the soles of his shoes.

How could John die now, so close to victory? Everything, it had all been to save him. The whole idiotic charade. He had only devised such a plan to keep everybody safe, had hung onto a semblance of sanity because he thought he could go back to his old comfortable life when it was over. He had dreamed of Baker street and John and the interesting cases they would investigate, rolled the familiar thought over and over in his mind like dough in his palms, clung to it while he destroyed fraction after fraction of Moriarty's web. It was his fault, he should have predicted Moran's pettiness, the bloody imbecile. He should have known John would be taken, should have guessed their desperation. John's life was on Sherlock's hands. No, no, John wasn't dead, he wasn't going to die. John would live, he would _live. _What was the point if he died?

He did not pay the slightest bit of attention to his immediate surroundings, despite the horrified stares that were thrown his way, until yet another nurse decided to get in his face.

"Um, I'm sorry sir, but are you all right?" she asked carefully.

"My friend is in the surgery. Leave me be," he mumbled.

"Yes, but..."

"GET AWAY FROM ME!" Sherlock roared. She promptly obeyed.

"Honestly," intervened Mycroft, who looked disapprovingly in the direction of the vanishing nurse who was probably going to alert security about Sherlock for the fourth time, "you need to calm down. Here, have a seat..." Sherlock had not at all noticed his brother's arrival. How long had Mycroft been there?

"Mycroft, they won't let me in." His tone turned pleading. "The surgeon said he wouldn't operate unless I waited outside. Can't you do something?"

"No. Out of the question. Even if you were on your best behaviour, I very much doubt that the presence of a frazzled genius bleeding on the linoleum would be beneficial to any medical professional's concentration. Do trust me for once, Sherlock, I've pulled some strings to acquire the best trauma surgeon in London, and you've done all you humanely could for John. We can only hope for the best now. Please sit down."

Sherlock kept pacing.

Mycroft decided to sit on one of the uncomfortable pieces of plastic to set an example. "Would it kill you to have your injuries looked at?" he said calmly. "You do realize that you are bleeding rather a lot," He pointed at the bloodiest spot with his umbrella.

Sherlock irritatedly pulled up his shirt to reveal a nasty gash on the right side of his abdomen. "Huh," he said. "Didn't notice that." This meant John had in fact lost less blood then he'd... No, he didn't want to think about it, not about John's blood.

He suddenly felt dizzy. Heavily, he sat down, smearing blood all over the shiny plastic. His side started to hurt. His shoulder was rather sore as well. He closed his eyes, but everything smelled like blood. He could feel the wet jumper under his fingers, he could see John's pallid face. He couldn't escape from it.

Mycroft glared at the obvious needle marks on his brother's pale forearms. He swallowed the icy rage quietly. He could imprison his brother in a rehabilitation centre soon enough. One crisis at a time.

Sherlock's tiredness was entirely forgotten when he saw the surgeon approach. He immediately sprung upright, tense as a violin string, incapable of articulating a single question or thought. He simply stared at the doctor in silent plea.

"Calm down, you two," the surgeon said with kindness. "He's alive. We'll need to monitor him until he's stable, but we think he just might make it. He's a stubborn chap, your friend is. He won't leave us without a fight."

John was alive. Sherlock let out a shuddering breath he did not realize he was holding. They could have tea and watch crap telly together. They could sit down at little dinners, and then Sherlock would watch John eat, and they would talk about Sherlock's brilliant observations on their current case. He could steal a hundred, a thousand more ashtrays for John...

Sherlock saw the floor going up towards him rather fast, followed by a flash of white. For a while, he saw nothing else.


End file.
